


find your grace, don't hide your face

by knightlightly



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Between 0 and 110 Percent, Graduation, Kinda, Kiss The Ice, M/M, Magic, Sad!Jack, Time Travel, Unapologetic Trope, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6489943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightlightly/pseuds/knightlightly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack doesn't consider himself superstitious.</p><p>(Or, an even more magical explanation for how Jack reached that magical "Oh" moment.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	find your grace, don't hide your face

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on another omcp fic, but then the update gave me feels, so I started on this "quick" fic. Almost 9000 words later.... here we are. Ha. hahaha.  
>   
>   
> Title from Alessia Cara's "Wild Things." Unbeta'd. Enjoy!

 

Jack doesn’t consider himself superstitious. Every athlete has their quirks, sure, and Jack’s no different. He makes his pre-game PB&J. He always steps onto the ice with his left foot first. They’re little things; nothing like stories he grew up hearing from his uncles about the rituals of this player or that goalie—the things you had to do to ward off bad luck, or keep other strange, inexplicable happenings from following you off the ice.

Jack always assumed those stories were jokes, told because they wanted to get a rise out of Bad Bobby’s too-quiet kid. Like they thought he needed one more thing to worry over.  

 

 

The night they kiss the ice and say goodbye to Faber is cold and clear. A gust of wind passes over the roof and Jack shivers but he doesn’t mind it, doesn’t regret giving Bittle his jacket.

The fire’s died out and the guys are quiet, asleep or nearly there. Jack isn’t tired, but he feels rested. Calm. He’s surrounded by his friends at one of his favorite places, stomach full of food baked in the new oven he installed in one of his other favorite places. In just a few weeks he’ll be leaving and it won’t be his Haus anymore, but he feels like he’s left a piece of himself there, in a way. He’ll be leaving it in good hands.

He relaxes against the wall behind him and looks up at the night sky. The stars are always hard to make out. The lights never really go off at Samwell. If he squints, though, he can make out the small points of light—distant, faint, wavering.

He exhales. His breathe is cold in his throat; it’s mist in the air.

Time passes. It’s been a half-hour since Bittle started slowly listing toward Jack and just as long since he touched his phone, so Jack assumes that must mean he’s unconscious. Jack’s more than content to let Bittle lean on him, but it turns out he’s not as asleep as Jack thought, when Bittle shifts beside him and lets out a soft, “Oh.”

Jack looks over. Bittle has his head his tilted back and he’s looking up with an open expression, eyes wide and mouth parted slightly.  

“What is it?” Jack asks, keeping his voice low.

“Oh,” Bittle echoes, like he didn’t think anyone was still awake. “I, um. I thought I saw a shooting star.”

“Yeah?” Jack says.

Bittle squints like he’s not sure if he’s being chirped. Jack lets himself smile, and Bittle’s face softens. He nods, shyly. “Yeah.”

“Huh.” Jack looks back up at the sky. “Funny, I was star-gazing a bit, too.”

“Did you see it?”

He shakes his head. “No. But stuff like that, it’s easy to miss, eh?”

Jack feels Bittle’s eyes on him for a long moment before he looks up at the sky, too. Jack can feel his sigh, too, the way his shoulders rise and fall and brush against Jack’s. “I suppose,” Bittle says.

“Did you make a wish?” Jack asks.

“No,” he says. “Wishin’ like that always seemed so… silly. Besides, I can never think of a good one.”

Bittle sounds… well, Jack’s not sure how he sounds. He’s never been good with that kind of thing. But he knows it’s not happy. Jack knows what happiness in Bittle sounds like, just like he knows Bittle is upset about graduation. It’s not easy for Jack, either. Even now, thinking about everything he’s leaving behind puts a tight feeling in his chest that’s just as hard to define.

He doesn’t have any words to make it right, though, so he leans over to bump Bittle’s shoulders with his. Bittle laughs softly and bumps back, so Jack thinks Bittle understands. He likes that Bittle gets what he tries to say.

Holster and Ransom are passed out back-to-back on the far end of the blanket, while Shitty cradles a beer bottle and snores. Lardo’s curled up on the other side of Bittle.

Bittle’s arm is warm against his. Jack feels himself falling, and this time he doesn’t resist it.

He’s really going to miss this.

 

* * *

 

Jack doesn’t consider himself superstitious. He makes sure to touch each goal post before a game starts. He only uses stick tape his Dad ships him from Montreal. They’re comforting things, even if he doesn’t really believe in luck. He certainly never believed the strangest stories, the ones with words like curses and magic.

Wishes.

He never really believed the stories. But he always listened.

 

 

Jack wakes up and something’s wrong.

He’s not where he should be. He’s in a bed, but it’s not the bed he knows: the narrow, sagging twin broken in by countless Samwell hockey players before him. This bed is too big, the mattress too stiff, and Jack’s hands fist into expensive-feeling sheets.

After a minute, he realizes he does recognize the room. It’s the master bedroom in his new apartment in Providence, although the last time he was here, he had been with his Mom and the real estate agent, and the room had been empty. His Mom hadn’t stopped talking about the tall windows and how the bedroom had such great natural light. Jack wouldn’t have noticed it on his own, but he liked the idea. It reminded him of something Bittle would enjoy. He likes decorating and that kind of thing. 

This room, though, doesn’t look decorated. He recognizes the furniture he ordered from a catalogue, the bed and dresser and nightstands that are supposed to be delivered the day after graduation. There’s a painting on the wall that reminds him of Lardo’s work, but he can’t be sure. Other than that, the room tells him nothing. It reminds him of the upscale hotel rooms where his parents like to stay. Nice, but efficiently impersonal.

A loud buzzing sound makes him jump, and he turns to see his phone skittering across the nightstand. He reaches over to turn off the alarm. Then he freezes.

The time on the lock screen says 7:15am. That’s not so strange.  But the phone isn’t _his_ phone. It’s a new model he’s never seen before, the case around the screen completely clear. And date beneath it...

The date reads May 18th, 2017.

It takes him three tries to unlock the phone, his fingers fumbling as they open up a browser. He types in _what is the year_ and gets the same answer. 2017.

He Googles his own name, because he doesn’t know what else to search that will make this seem less impossible, and he’s always been a glutton for punishment. The top results are news stories, which is familiar, even if the headlines are not:  

 

_Falconers fall short of wild card spot again, is Zimmermann to blame?_

_NHL Real Talk: Top 10 Players We Like But Love to See Fail_

_Zimmermann on off-season, recovery, after missing last game due to lower body injury._

 

“What the fuck,” he says to himself. He stretches out his legs and his whole left leg is sore. When he gets out bed, his knee nearly buckles out from beneath him—but he pushes through it, braces himself against the wall and keeps walking, because he needs to get out of this room. He feels trapped.

He walks out into the living room. It’s definitely the apartment in Providence, and it’s just as devoid of personality as the bedroom. But there’s a pile of mail with his name on the coffee table. There’s a large piece of clear glass on the wall that Jack thinks might actually be a TV.

He exhales, and tries not to panic.

This can’t be real, because those stories _weren’t_ real. This sort of thing doesn’t happen. Hockey players don’t magically travel through time or swap bodies with their teammates or turn into children. Magic isn’t real; superstitions are for luck, nothing more.

He squeezes his eyes shut and thinks _wake up, wake up_ as hard as he can.

But when he opens them, he’s still standing alone in this big, lonely apartment.

Jack calls his Dad. It goes straight to voicemail. He hangs up, and calls again, but his Dad’s phone must be off. He tries twice more anyway. He swallows; his mouth is dry.

He calls his Mom next. There’s a long silence before it starts to ring, but it only rings once before it goes to her voicemail, too. He closes his eyes and listens to her entire message, first in English, then repeated in her softly-accented French.

When the beep comes, he can’t get out the words. He goes back to his Dad’s number instead. He texts him, _please call asap._

He checks his other texts; they’re few and far between. Georgia and his parents are at the top, but after that, it’s a handful of names and numbers he doesn’t recognize. He has to scroll down a long time before he finds Shitty’s number, even longer before he finds Bittle’s.

He hesitates, thumb hovering over Bittle’s name, before he scrolls back up to Shitty.

When he opens the conversation, he sees their last exchange was over two months ago, and it’s distressingly banal.

 

**SHITTY**

Tue, Mar 7, 3:10 PM  
_Hey Shits. How’s it going._

Tue, Mar 7, 4:02 PM  
_fucking tax law brah_

Tue, Mar 7, 4:04 PM  
_Haha._

Tue, Mar 7, 5:54 PM  
_lardo and i are gonna visit bits next wknd, can u make it?_

Tue, Mar 7, 7:13 PM  
_ah sorry brah forgot you had a game tonight. crack some skulls._

_lemme know though._

Wed, Mar 8, 10:23 AM  
_Can’t._

_Sorry._

Wed, Mar 8, 10:49 AM  
_i get it man. caught the highlights, motherfucking brutal game._

Wed, Mar 8, 1:16 PM  
_Yeah._

Wed, Mar 8, 1:31 PM  
_flyers suck dick. skype soon?_

Wed, Mar 8, 2:53 PM  
_Sure._

 

Jack has a sinking feeling that Skype call never happened.

He calls anyway. He needs to talk to _someone._ Shitty is always telling him to use his words. Even if they don’t feel good enough, if Jack tries and fails to articulate himself, it’s the trying that counts. But then again, Shitty is usually here to listen to him.

Finally there’s a click, and Jack sags in relief as he hears Shitty’s best megaphone-ready voice:

“ _Hello!_ ”

“Shitty, thank god—”

“ _You’ve reached the voicemail of one Shitty Knight, or B. Knight, if you’re one of the Harvard dildos I’m forced to study with. Go ahead, judge me, your pretentious heteronormative bullcrap fuels my hate-boner—”_

Jack hangs up the phone.

He tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs won’t fill; his throat feels too tight. His pulse races uncomfortably and he feels nauseous. He knows a panic attack when it’s coming, but that doesn’t mean he can make it stop. 

Jack heads to the bathroom but ends up in the laundry room by mistake. He doesn’t care—there’s a sink in there, and he runs the tap full-blast so he can splash cold water on his face with one hand. He still has the phone clenched in the other.

He turns, and slides to the floor, ignoring the sharp twinge in his knee. There’s a pile of dirty clothes next to him, shirts Jack recognizes mixed in with practice gear he doesn’t. He counts the Falconers logos as he tries to control his breathing, ride the panic attack out.

It’s times like these, few and far between as they are, that he wishes he had more powerful meds.

It’s a long few minutes. 

“ _Crisse,_ ” he says, when the shaking subsides. Without thinking about it too much, he opens up his contacts again.

As soon as it starts ringing, he has to put the phone down. He puts the phone on speaker and lets it drop the few inches to the floor. He digs his hands in his hair to quell the tremors, and prays to whoever’s listening that the call will be picked up—

“Jack!” Bittle says, surprised and sleep-rough but no less warm. Jack exhales, lets the sound of Bittle’s voice wash over him, a welcome contrast to the silence around him. “Hello, stranger. I wasn’t expectin’ to hear from you. You do know it’s… 7:40 on a Sunday morning, mister?”

Jack tries to pull himself together, to speak, but he takes too long.

“Jack?” Bittle says, this time in concern. He hears the sound of sheets shifting.  “Is everything alright?”

“…no. I—”

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Jack shakes his head, realizing a second too late Bittle can’t see him. “No. I just…”

“Was it a panic attack?”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I think… I think it’s over.” 

“Okay. Good,” Bittle says softly. There’s a pause, the silence thick with something Jack doesn’t understand, but doesn’t like. “Jack… is there someone you can call?”

“I tried my parents and Shitty. They didn’t pick up.”

“Oh, no, Jack, I’m sorry. What about your one of your team members?”

“Bittle.”

Bittle ignores him. “I don’t know what happened, of course, but surely one of them would be better—”

“ _Bittle,_ ” he says, sharper. Bittle goes silent, and Jack lifts his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I called _you._ ”

Another short pause. “Jack…”

“Do you want me to—” Jack stops, unable to finish. 

“No, _no,_ Jack, you know that’s not it,” Bittle rushes to explain. He sighs. “It’s just… it’s been a long time, y’know, since we talked. Are you _sure_ you want to talk to little ol’ me?”

“No it hasn’t,” Jack says immediately.

“What?”

“It hasn’t been a long time,” Jack says. “Last night—we were all together. It’s almost graduation, and Shitty and I—you guys made us kiss center ice.”

Bittle’s voice is wary. “Jack.”

“That’s the last thing I remember. We all fell asleep. Then I woke up, here, and my phone, the internet, it says it’s 2017. But I don’t know how I got here.” His breathing is picking up again and he screws his eyes shut. “No one answered their phone and— _crisse,_ this can’t be real, Bittle, I don’t—”

“Hey, hey, Jack, sweetheart. Jack, calm down,” Bittle says. “You need to breathe. Listen to me, okay? Are you listening?”

Jack nods, and manages a soft, “ _Mm_.”

“Okay. Okay. So… you’re sayin’ you don’t remember anything since that night? Nothing at all?”

“…yeah.”

“Um. Is that “yeah” you don’t remember or…?”

“Bittle.”

“Sorry! I’m just tryin’ to wrap my head around this,” he says. He makes a thoughtful noise, then, “You didn’t hit your head in your last game, did you?”

The thought’s not comforting. “You’d know better than me.”

Bittle laughs ruefully. “Right. Well, I’m sure I would’ve heard something if you had... and the team would have you on concussion watch, too. Can you get major memory loss from a concussion?”

“You’d know better than me,” Jack repeats, lips twitching.    

“Oh ha, ha, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle shoots back. “Good to know you can still chirp even if you can’t tell me the right date. But don’t go jinxin’ it. You’ve been lucky so far, I wouldn’t wish that on you.”

“…yeah. Sorry.”

“Maybe you should go see a doctor—”

“No,” Jack says, firmly. He’s always hated the hospitals, can’t stand the thought of going into one now, of what they might say. The word _crazy_ comes to mind, but he pushes it away. “Not yet. Please.”

Bittle is quiet for a long time, then sighs again. “So let’s say you’ve somehow found yourself in the future. What now?”

“…You believe me?”

There’s another long pause. “I know you, Jack. You wouldn’t joke about this,” Bittle finally says. “And… being honest, Jack, we haven’t spoken in almost a year. But here we are, and in nothing flat you’ve got me talkin’ like nothing’s changed and you’re still livin’ right across the hall. It’s too easy.” 

 _And nothing’s ever that easy,_ Jack thinks. “Bittle…”

“I’m not blaming you, Jack. It’s fine,” he says, but Jack doesn’t think so. He doesn’t want Bittle to think that losing touch, becoming people who can’t talk to each other is something that can ever be _fine._

“Do you have training today?” Bittle says.

“Um,” Jack says.

“That wasn’t the first thing you checked?” Bittle chirps. “As if I needed any more proof you’re out of sorts.”

“I don’t,” Jack says, checking the calendar on his phone. “It’s a rest day.”

“Okay,” he says. “Gimme a minute to get dressed, and I’ll be on my way.”

“On your—wait, Bittle—”

“I’m not going to leave you on your lonesome, at least until you figure out what to do next.”

“But—”

“Finals are over. Graduation isn’t until next weekend. I can spare a couple hours.”  

Jack thinks about protesting, but the thought of meeting up with Bittle already makes him feel calmer. Besides, Bittle’s using his best take-no-nonsense tone, and Jack’s heard it enough to know better than to argue.

They say their goodbyes, and then hang up, and all that’s left is to wait.  

Panic attacks always leave him sweaty so he showers, then dresses in clothes he knows are his. He ices and wraps his knee because he’s not stupid, but after that, he sits on the couch and tries not to touch anything. This isn’t his space, even if that isn’t technically true. In his own time, in 2015, he’s already signed the lease on this apartment. That doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’s intruding.

Despite waiting anxiously, he’s still caught off guard when his phone finally rings.

“Bittle?”

“Hey, Jack. I’m nearin’ your neighborhood. Let’s meet at Café Lola?”

Jack frowns. “What’s that?”

“Oh! Sorry, Jack, I wasn’t thinkin’… it’s the coffee shop on the corner of your block. Turn left when you leave your apartment, you can’t miss it.” 

Jack tries to picture the street from his last visit, but can’t. He trusts Bittle, though. “Ok. You don’t want to just come here?”

The slight pause before he answers is telling, and when Bittle recovers, it’s overly-cheerful; forced. It makes Jack’s stomach turn. “Excuse you, Mr. Zimmermann, I just drove all this way to see you when I should be having a delightful lie-in. Don’t you chirp me about sleepin’ in, either. The frogs threw us a graduation Kegster last night and I was up all night wrangling wasted tadpoles—bless their young, senseless hearts—so I deserve caffeine.”

“Oh,” Jack says. “Ok. I’ll meet you there, then?”

“See you soon,” Bittle says, and hangs up.

Jack leaves the apartment immediately. Bittle was right; the coffee shop’s sign is visible from the main entrance to his building. He walks over and only waits outside the shop for a few minutes before a new-looking SUV pulls into the small parking lot, Bittle behind the wheel.

Bittle parks quickly and rushes over to him. He stops a few feet away, a calculated distance.

“Hey,” Jack says, waving awkwardly.

“Jack,” he says, shyly. He shakes his head, then steps forward. “Sorry! This is just so weird. I mean, it must not be weird for you, thinkin’ you’re still at Samwell, you’d be used to seeing me all the time! But for me, it’s been a—”

“A long time,” Jack interrupts. “Yeah, you’ve said.”

“Sorry,” Bittle says again. “Um, we should go in?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Jack opens the door for Bittle and lets him go inside first. Bittle heads straight to the counter and orders a drink and pastry without looking at the menu. Jack wonders if he’s been here before. It seems like he has, like he knows his way around, but then again, Bittle knows how to make anywhere seem like home.

He looks back at Jack for his order, but Jack shakes his head. He’s not hungry, even though he hasn’t eaten since last night—or two years ago, depending on how this whole thing works. It’s still hard to think about. But everywhere he looks, the proof is here—in the date written on chalkboard above the day’s specials, in the unfamiliar newspaper headlines, in the too-sleek touchscreens he sees around him.

He steps up to pay for Bittle’s order, waving off Bittle’s protests.

“You drove up here, remember?” he says. “It’s the least I could do.”

Bittle rolls his eyes, but takes his number with no further complaint.

They sit in a corner of the shop, away from everyone. Bittle pulls out his phone but before Jack can say anything, he says, “I’m not ‘Nexting or anything, don’t worry. Just wanted to check on Chowder.”

“…Nexting?”

Bittle’s lip twitch. “Connext. It’s the new Twitter,” he says, then adds, “I don’t think even the you from now knows about it, don’t worry.”

“Oh.”

Jack watches Bittle’s thumbs fly over the touch-screen, the way he pokes his tongue into his cheek as he types. Just as he sets his phone down, the waitress swoops in with Bittle’s coffee. Bittle grabs the wide mug with two hands and breathes in the smell of fresh coffee.

His eyes slide shut as he takes his first sip, and Jack tries not to stare. “Good?” he offers, the first thing that comes to mind. He winces.

“Mm,” Bittle says. “I needed this.”

“The drive wasn’t too bad, eh?”

“No, especially this time of morning. Thank the Lord for seat-warmers, though.”

Jack glances out the window. “It, uh, seemed like a nice car. When did you get it?”

Bittle goes red, but not in a good way. He squirms in his seat. “It’s not mine, actually. It’s Connors.”

Jack doesn’t recognize the name. “Is he on the team?”

“No. Um. He’s my boyfriend.” 

Jack blinks in shock. “Oh.”

Bittle takes a long sip of coffee. “Yeah.”

The café seems suddenly loud to Jack—the sound of people talking, and the espresso machine whirring behind the counter, and some sort of weird hipster marching band music playing over the speaker above them.

And the silence between them. That’s deafening.

Bittle, true to form, won’t let the silence be. He babbles nervously, “He lets me borrow it sometimes, for grocery runs and the like, since none of us at the Haus have cars this year. He left it over this weekend. I mean, he didn’t just _leave_ it, he had an interview for the med school he’s applyin’ to in California, so I drove him to the airport, and had the keys and all.”

Jack struggles. He knows he should say something nice and bland like _That’s cool_ or _How long have you been dating?_ Or even, _Med school, eh? Nice one, Bittle._

Instead, he opens his dumb mouth and what comes out is: “He’s okay with you driving it to see me?”

Bittle doesn’t meet his eyes. “It’s still early in California. I’d hate to wake him.”

It’s not an answer, but the avoidance says it all, anyway. Jack doesn’t know what to say, and he’s grateful when Bittle redirects the conversation.

“Anyway, we need to sort _you_ out, mister. That’s why I’m here.”

“Right.”

“You certainly look like the Jack from now, on the outside. That’s gotta mean it’s all in your head, right? Not that you’re making this up! Sorry, that sounded bad. I just mean, it’s your mind, or your memory, that’s having trouble with… time,” he finishes, wincing.

Jack drums his fingers on the table. “…Maybe. I don’t know.”

 “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I told you, we all fell asleep at Faber. You were there.”

Bittle clucks his tongue. “I know, but refresh my memory. It might help.”

So Jack tells him, starting from that afternoon, when they all hung out in the kitchen as Bittle and Shitty argued over the pie-alcohol ratio of the picnic basket, through the “mandatory” group tequila shot Shitty made them take before they walked over to Faber. How they kissed center ice and Shitty cried, and then they went to the roof and drank and talked and stargazed until they all fell asleep.  

Bittle listens intently through his story, smiling in all the right places. When Jack’s done, he says, “That sounds about right.”

Jack hesitates, then says, “What if it isn’t a memory thing? What if it’s…”

“What?”

“Something… strange.”

Bittle’s eyebrows shoot up. “Like…” he starts, leadingly. They stare at each other for a moment, before Jack huffs. Neither of them wants to say it.

“Like maybe, magic, or something,” he says quietly.

“Jack…”

“I’m not crazy,” he says. 

Bittle frowns. “I didn’t say you were.” He looks down at Jack’s hands, which are clenched into fists on the table.

Jack moves his hands beneath the table. After a pause, he says, “You know hockey players are superstitious, right?”

“Yes,” Bittle says ruefully. “I have met a few.”

 “Yeah. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing, Jack.”

Jack nods, even though he doesn’t agree. He pushes the thought away. “Anyway, I, um. I used to grow up hearing stories, about stuff like this happening to players. From my Dad and uncles.”

Bittle’s eyes go wide. “Made-up stories, or stories-stories?”

“I thought they were made up. But then this happened. It fits.”

“You’d think we’d have heard of something like this happenin’ before, if it were real,” Bittle says, sounding skeptical.

“It doesn’t happen often. The league keeps it quiet,” he says.

“I’ll bet,” Bittle huffs. “So… it’s related to the game? Why just hockey players?”

Jack shrugs. “Maybe it’s not. I just know what I’ve heard.”

Bittle’s quiet for a moment, obviously thinking. “Let’s say it is. We weren’t playing a game back then, and the Falconer’s season is over, so you wouldn’t have been playing recently here, either, so why you? Why now?”

Jack thinks, then, of all the things he didn’t tell Bittle about that night. Like how it felt to kneel at center ice, the cold soaking into his jeans, and how a part of him felt happy to have this moment, to be a part of this ritual that he would have never experienced if he’d made it through the draft.

But how there had been another part of Jack, a part he covered up with jokes and a chirp at Shitty, that had felt like he was leaving it behind too soon. He had unfinished business at Samwell and he could figure it out, if only he had more _time._ He’d chalked that up to something all seniors must feel at graduation. But now… now he wonders… 

“I think I did something. On the ice,” he says.

Bittle doesn’t say anything, but the invitation to go on is there.

Jack takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know how to explain it all, but Bittle came all this way. It’s the trying that counts. “When we were at center ice. I was worried. About things changing. I didn’t want them to.”

“Oh, Jack…”

“So. Maybe I’m here, because of that. Because I wished for that.”

When he looks up at Bittle, he looks heartbroken. “But everything has changed,” he says, softly.

Jack looks down. “Yeah.”

“But it’s okay, right?” Bittle says, and he sounds almost desperate, radiating earnestness _._ “You’re okay. I know it might have seemed bad when you couldn’t reach anyone, but you have a _life_ here, Jack. You’re teammates are great. I know you like them. And you’re playing in the NHL. That’s your dream.”

“My knee is fucked up,” Jack says, throat tight. 

“I know,” Bittle says, softly, “but it won’t stop you from playing. Shitty’s kept us in the loop—and you two are _still_ best friends, even if he didn’t pick up, I promise. He’s just so busy, and volunteers a lot on the weekends.”

“Oh.”

Bittle opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by another waitress, who sets a plate with Bittle’s warmed-up pastry onto the table with a cheery, “Here you go!”

Bittle smiles weakly at her, then starts tearing bites off the pastry with quick, nimble fingers. The first time Jack saw him do it, he’d warned Bittle about it being too hot, but Bittle had laughed him off, saying he’d burned his fingers so many times baking that he barely felt the heat on his fingertips.

Jack had, of course, immediately wondered if that had ever impacted his stick handling. Bittle had known exactly what he was thinking, too, because he’d rolled his eyes and said, “ _No,_ _captain,_ ” in that long-suffering tone of his, even though Jack knew he thought he was being funny.

Now, though, there’s no more joking. Jack watches Bittle eat and then looks out the window, and it’s awkward. It’s _so_ awkward, but Jack really, really doesn’t know how to make it better.

Jack looks back once Bittle finishes, just in time to catching him licking a flake of dough off his thumb. He stares and Bittle drops his hand, uncomfortable.

“What about us?” Jack blurts out.

“Us?” Bittle parrots, wary.

Jack shrugs, embarrassed to say it aloud. “Are we still… friends?”   

“Of course we are!” he says quickly, though the certainty of his statement is at odds with his tone, soft and frustrated. “It’s just…”

“What?”

Bittle sighs. “I hate sounding like a broken record, but ever since you graduated, our lives haven’t had much to do with each other,” he says “We just… drifted apart. We knew it could happen, and it’s no one’s fault. Really. We’re both so busy, even Skypin’ was difficult after a while, and what was there to say? And you and I, we would have never worked out like that anyway, it was just too complicated—”

Bittle keeps going, but Jack’s still stuck on _you and I,_ and _like that,_ because Jack’s got a one-track mind, but he’s not an idiot. And that sounded an awful like….

“Wait. Like _what_?”

Bittle stops mid-word and pales. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I did that. Jack, just ignore me—”

“No,” Jack says, sitting up straight. “What did you mean?”

Bittle puts his face in his hands. “Lord have mercy. Never having this conversation again was the one good thing about confessing the first time around.”

Jack’s mind races, rethinking every single moment, conversation, touch… until he’s forced to conclude maybe he is an idiot after all.

He can’t say he’s never thought about Bittle like that. Jack’s focus has always been hockey, but he has _eyes_. Bittle is an attractive guy, and Jack has a type. The first day they’d met Jack had thought _oh he’s hot_ before his hockey-brain kicked in and said _too small too young too timid,_  drowning out Jack’s better judgement.

He’ll always regret how he treated Bittle that year, especially knowing Bittle like he does now, his history of being bullied, his issues expressing himself. Offering his friendship, as small an offering as it was, wouldn’t ever make up for it.

But to know that Bittle not only had looked past that to consider Jack a friend, but had maybe felt _more_ —

“Bittle, did you—”  

“Yes!” Bittle bursts out, before Jack can say more. “Yes, okay? I had the biggest crush on you your senior year, and it was awful and embarrassing and I hate talkin’ about it. So can we not?”

Jack lets that sit for a moment, turning it over in his mind. “….Had?”

Bittle’s shoulders slump, but he laughs quietly. “That’s what you said the first time, too.”

“…When?”

“Last year. We made it to the playoffs again. You came down for one of our games. We won, so of course there was a party. I’d had a bit too much tub juice, and well… I let it slip that I was finally ‘over you’.”

Jack can’t imagine how it went. Or maybe he can; it was probably just as mind-blowing and pathetic as this. He says, “And after that… we didn’t…”

Bittle shifts uncomfortably. “Jack, honey. I really liked you, you got no idea. But when we are at school, I had no idea it was even a possibility! So I did my darned best to ignore it, and hoped it would get easier once you graduated. And, then, well… it _did_.”

Jack swallows.

“And by then, I’d started seeing Connor. Maybe if something had happened earlier… but we can’t know,” Bittle says, shaking his head. “I guess we just… we missed our shot.”

Jack closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, Bittle is hunched in his seat, looking sad and hopeful all at once.

“But Connor’s great, Jack,” he says. “He really is. He can’t skate, but he comes to every game. All the guys have met him and like him—” he stops, suddenly, the _except you_ unspoken but coming across clear. 

“So you shot me down,” Jack says, after a moment. “That’s why it’s been a long time.”

“Kinda,” Bittle says. He stares down into his coffee cup.

“Yet you still drove all this way to help me,” Jack says. “You didn’t have to,” he says, and means, _You’re such a good person. You’re a better person than me._  

“Of course I did, Jack,” Bittle says, and because he always seems to know what Jack’s thinking—and _tabarnac_ , how the hell didn’t Jack figure this out sooner _—_ he adds, “You would’ve done the same for me. I know it.”

Jack exhales, and feels too old for twenty-five, or twenty-seven, whatever age he’s supposed to be. “I’m sorry, Bitty.”

Bitty looks stricken. “Don’t apologize. You’ve done nothin’ wrong.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t realize—” he says, “I messed up.”

“That’s not true,” Bitty says firmly.

“It’s true for me,” Jack says.

“Jack…” Bitty says, but doesn’t seem to know how to go on. That makes two of them.

Jack looks at his watch. They’ve been at the café almost two hours. It feels like much longer. His movement makes Bittle’s reaches for phone, too, though, and he winces.

“It’s almost noon,” he says.

“Oh.”

“I’ll need to head back eventually. Professor Atley’s is having a reception for graduatin’ students at her house…”

“You should go,” Jack says, even though he doesn’t mean it. Or maybe he does. “Now. If you need to.”

Bitty bites his lip. “I haven’t helped at all. I’ve only upset you.”

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t think it is.”

Jack looks around the café. It’s full with the Sunday crowd, no open seats. Bitty’s finished his food, and any coffee he has left has long gone cold. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Okay, Jack,” Bitty says, softly.

They start to leave, but before they get to the door, a teenage girl runs up to Jack and shyly asks for a picture. There is nothing less than Jack wants to do, but being polite to fans has been drilled into him since he was a kid, so he grits his teeth into something like a smile and bears it.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees more of the café patrons looking their way, pointing. He ducks his head as he quickly follows Bitty out onto the sidewalk. 

They walk a little ways away from the door before Jack stops. Bitty turns to him, arms crossed tight over his chest.

“We could go to my apartment,” Jack offers, because he can’t help himself.

Bitty looks at his shoes. “I wouldn’t feel right about that. I’m sorry, Jack.”

And just like that, the tension is back, a heavy thing between them, pressing on Jack’s chest and lungs. Suffocating. It’s a wonder they both aren’t crushed by it.

“What if it can’t be fixed?” Jack says suddenly. “What if I’m stuck like this?” He thinks back to that empty apartment with plenty of light but no _life,_ and despite Bittle’s assurances, he doesn’t think the Jack-from-now is happy. Maybe being in the NHL is his dream, but the rest of it—it’s a nightmare.

“Jack—” Bittle says, but is interrupted by a loud ringing. Jack jumps when he realizes it’s coming from him. He pulls out his phone. “It’s my Dad.”

“Oh. That’s good, right?” Bittle says.

Jack nods absently. He answers the call. “Papa?”

“ _Jack. I saw your text,”_ his father answers, his French thick with worry. “ _Your mother said she had missed calls, too. What’s wrong?_ ”

“ _You didn’t pick up,”_ Jack says, feeling overwhelmed.

 _“We just got off the plane,”_ his father says with a hint of reproach. “ _You knew we were flying back from Vancouver this morning. Are you okay?_ ”

Bittle is watching the exchange silently. Jack meets his eyes, taking courage. “ _Something’s happened, Papa,_ ” he says.  

“ _Tell me.”_

So Jack does.

 

 

They move to a far corner of the parking lot, away from the street, where Jack can pace and talk to his father in relative privacy. Bittle waits with him, ignores Jack when Jack tries to tell him he can go. He sits on a crumbling parking block and plays with his phone, occasionally glancing up at Jack and offering an encouraging smile. Jack is grateful.

After ten minutes and many assurances that _no, Papa, you don’t need to fly down, I’m managing, it’s okay, I’ll manage,_ Jack hangs up the phone. 

Bittle stands and dusts off his pants. “So, what did he say? I never did get around to takin’ French.”

“He said if it’s…” Jack hesitates, because his Dad had sounded so assured when he said _ice magic,_ no hesitation, but Jack still can’t quite accept it. He goes with, “If it’s what we think it is, then it should wear off in a day.”

“That’s great, Jack!”

“Yeah,” he says, but it lacks enthusiasm.

Bittle notices. “What’s wrong?” Jack shrugs, and Bittle sighs. “Jack…”

Jack huffs a frustrated breath. “He also said it might not have been me. Maybe it was _him_ —the me from now. That made this happen. So when I wake up, I’ll wake up with all my memories, here.”

Bittle shakes his head. “I don’t understand. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

He sounds so honestly confused that Jack suppresses his initial surge of resentment. Of course he doesn’t want to stay here. He wants to go back, to his time, to his Bitty, where he has a chance to use the time he has left. Where he has a _chance_ with—

“Whatever happens,” Bittle says. “It’ll be okay. You gotta believe that.”

Jack shakes his head, but Bittle steps up into his space—the first time he’s gotten voluntarily close to Jack all day. “I’m serious, Mr. Zimmermann,” he says, putting his hands on Jack’s arms. “If this whole adventure was meant to show you anything, it’s that you _will_ be okay. You were worried about things changing, and maybe they have, but that don’t matter. Because you’re here, you’re doing great, and you’re playin’ some damn good hockey. I can swear to that on my Moomaw’s secret piecrust recipe, because I watch as many of your games as I can.” 

“Okay Bittle, I get it,” Jack says.

“Do you?” Bittle says, looking up at him searchingly. Jack has to look away.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t know if Bittle believes him, but before either of them can say anything else, Bittle’s phone buzzes. Bittle steps back, pulling it out. He frowns.

“You need to go,” Jack guesses.

“Professor Atley asked if I could stop by early.” He looks back up at Jack. “I don’t have to. I can stay.”

“No,” Jack says. “You should go.”

“I don’t like the thought of leavin’ you alone.”

“I’ll be fine, Bittle. You said so yourself, eh?” he says. He tries to be light, joking. He doesn’t think he manages. “Go.”

After a long moment, Bittle nods. He looks guilty—but also, Jack thinks with a pang, a bit relieved. He fishes out his keys and Jack walks him towards his… Connor’s car.

“Are you sure, Jack?” Bittle asks, one last time, once he’s in the driver’s seat. Jack nods, and Bittle’s hands clench on the steering wheel. “Call me in the morning?” he asks. “Just to let me know everything’s back to normal.”

“Okay, Bittle.” He won’t.

“Jack…”

“Goodbye, Bittle.”

Bittle looks at him sadly. “Goodbye, Jack.”

He closes the driver’s door and turns on the car. Backing up, he maneuvers the large SUV in the small parking lot with the ease of familiarly, and then heads out on the street.

He drives away, and never once looks back.

 

 

Jack goes home to his apartment, alone.

He figures he fell asleep at Faber around midnight, so he now has just under twelve hours to kill. He hates sitting around and doing nothing, but according to his Dad, there was nothing to do but wait till the first day was over, and then go from there.

He tries going to sleep right away. He doesn’t usually like to sleep during the day, but he’s wrung-out after coffee with Bittle.

When he lies down, however, he’s restless. The bed is still too unfamiliar, and he can’t get comfortable. His mind won’t turn off, replaying the conversation with Bittle over and over.

After an hour of staring listlessly at the ceiling, he gives up. He goes through the living room into the kitchen, opens his refrigerator. Inside there are stacks of neatly-packed Tupperware boxed, no doubt nutritionist-approved meals, and a… surprising amount of beer bottles.

Jack tries not to think too hard on it, grabbing a bottle and a box labeled _sunday._ He nukes the meal, and then takes it and his beer into the living room, where he can eat and drink and find something mindless to watch.

It takes a few minutes to figure out how to get the TV on, then another few to find a game to watch. He realizes he’s probably cheating, in some way, by watching games that haven’t happened yet. But his Dad didn’t mention anything about avoiding future knowledge, so Jack decides he doesn’t care.

But watching the game doesn’t help. As the game reaches the end of the first period and Jack reaches the bottom of his bottle, he’s frustrated and restless. He hates everything about this.

“Fuck it,” he says aloud, and goes for another beer.

He keeps the TV on, background noise to his maudlin thoughts. The beers make him drowsy but it can’t help him turn off his brain.

 _What if I’m stuck like this?_ He’d asked Bittle. If he wakes up here, memories intact, what will he do? Will it make things easier, knowing what’s transpired the past two years? Has Jack-from-now come to peace with it all—the empty apartment, the injuries, the distance from Samwell.

Bittle.

Jack realizes he was like Bittle, in a way. He hadn’t known there was a possibility of something more between them _._ Or, some part of him had known, but he hadn’t let himself think about it. He hadn’t let himself think of anyone like that, really. Not since Kent. 

But now Jack knows.

Bittle had feelings for Jack. Bittle _has_ feelings for Jack, back in 2015.

If Jack wakes up back in his own time… he could fix things. He’d be the one to confess, this time, and Bittle wouldn’t shoot him down. They would be together. At least, in theory, because Bittle is supposed to be in Georgia for the summer, and after graduation Jack is still going to Providence. Because he’s going to play for the Falconers. Because he’s going to be a professional athlete, in a world where professional sports is notoriously homophobic, and the NHL is one of the biggest offenders. He can’t be out, not early in his career, maybe not ever. Kent has never even entertained the idea, Jack knows, despite his success.

Can Jack ask Bittle part of that? Jack’s first thought is _no._

But can Jack go back in time, and not say anything to Bittle? The answer is equally emphatic.

Because now Jack knows. Bittle wants a _them_. Bitty-and-Jack.

And Jack wants that, too. No matter the cost.

 

* * *

  

Jack doesn’t consider himself superstitious. He doesn’t wish on shooting stars and he doesn’t believe in magic, but when he finally passes out on the couch, half-drunk, his last thought is the desperate hope that when he wakes up, he won’t be here—that he’ll be thirty miles and two years away, on the dank roof of an old ice rink.

He’s willing to believe, if he can make things go back to the way they were before.

 

 

Jack stirs at the sound of Shitty and Ransom whispering not half as quietly as they think. He groans, noting the stiffness in his legs. He stretches out his legs and his knees ache from where they were bent as he slept.

He looks out over the rooftop. It’s still nighttime, probably just a few hours from when he fell asleep. Shitty and Ransom are still arguing over who’s going to wake Holster up. Lardo is packing up the blanket and fire.

Beside him, Bittle sits up and yawns. “Oh goodness, I can’t believe we all fell asleep.”

“I guess its tradition now, eh?” Jack says.

Bittle smiles at him softly, still sleepy-eyed. “That means you’ll have to come back next year,” he says, then flushes and looks away.

Jack smiles. “Okay.”

Bittle smiles back, and stands. He watches as Bittle goes to help Lardo pack up, and as Holster nearly punches Ransom in the face when he pokes him awake.

He chuckles softly, and pushes himself to his feet.

Yeah, he’s really going to miss this.

 

 

Jack doesn’t consider himself superstitious, but he get what he’s hoping for, anyway.

Everything is as it should be. He has no memories of 2017 at all.

 

 

 

Everything is as it should be, _but_.

 

 

 

Graduation is over. Jack has packed up his room at the Haus. He’s walked across the stage and been handed his diploma. He’s said his goodbyes.

The day has gone surprisingly smoothly, almost too fast. His Dad has been complaining about his Mom taking too long all afternoon, but they’ll probably make it to the restaurant well before their dinner reservation time.

The skies are clear and the sun glistens off the pond, and it’s probably the best day Jack could have hoped for. He knows he’ll remember this day forever, but at the same time, something’s not quite right.

Like he’s forgotten something. 

He tugs at his tie, remembering how Bittle had straightened nervously, purposefully, covering up whatever he had been planning to say. Jack wishes he knew. He hates that Bittle’s been so upset, was both moved and saddened by the happy front Bittle had managed to put up all day. But what can he do about it? He’s leaving Samwell. Time’s run out.

He’s so absorbed in the thought that it’s not surprising he lets it slip when his Dad comes back and questions him. He’s not even really paying attention to what his Dad says, until he hears, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

And honestly, Jack has no idea what his Dad is talking about, but something about those words sound familiar. There’s a sense of déjà vu, or like the fragment of a dream, until now unremembered…

_I guess we just… missed our shot._

And something in Jack’s mind clicks. Now Jack knows.

“Oh.”

He has to get to the Haus.

 

 

 

Jack wakes up and something’s wrong.

He’s in bed, but when he stretches out his arm, the other side of the bed is cold. His alarm is still buzzing, and he reaches over to stop his phone from skittering across the nightstand. It’s just past 7:00am. His hands fist into too-expensive sheets as he pushes himself up and out of bed—only to immediately stub his toe.

 “What the fuck,” he mutters, lifting his foot to rub his toe and glare at the large hardback book on the floor. It’s a new retrospective on the Invasion of Normandy that Shitty got him at Christmas, and it’s actually really good, even if Jack can only read a few pages each night. It must’ve fallen on the floor after he fell asleep.

He puts it on the nightstand, balancing it on the already-precarious pile of books he keeps collecting at a faster pace than he can read. His teammates always roll their eyes when he pulls out a history book when they’re on the road, but Jack doesn’t care. It helps him relax. It reminds him of Samwell.

He stretches out his legs and flexes his toes, pushing through the sting in his toe.

He walks out into the living room. It’s empty, but music filters through the TV speakers. He grabs the stack of mail on the coffee table that he’s been meaning to go through and heads into the kitchen, following the sound of singing.

Bitty jumps when he slides a hand around the curve of his hip, pressing himself to Bitty’s back.

“Jack!” Bitty says, surprised, almost dropping his spoon into the bowl of egg yolks. Jack smiles and lets the sound of Bitty’s voice wash over him. “I wasn’t expectin’ to see you up! You do know you don’t have practice skate until… 11am today, mister? You’re supposed to be catchin’ up on sleep.”

Jack winds his arm around Bitty’s waist and shrugs.

“Jack,” Bitty says, turning his head enough to give Jack an unimpressed look.

“I woke up and you weren’t there.”

“Uh-huh. And I suppose I imagined that alarm buzzing?”

Jack bites down a smile. “I told Fitz I’d run with him this morning.”

Bitty scoffs and pushes back against Jack. “You played double-overtime last night! You’re gonna overwork yourself, and then how’re you gonna whoop the Rangers in the next round?”

“That’s why you’re here,” Jack says, even as Bitty makes a sound of agreement. “To remind me to take a break.” He tucks his face into Bitty’s neck, nipping the soft skin beneath his jaw.

Bitty squirms and laughs. “Stop! I’m cooking here! When are you meeting with Fitz?”

Jack pulls back to hook his chin on Bitty’s shoulder. “Mm. Not until 8.”

“Well I have to leave at 7:30. Do you want me to fix you something to have when you and Fitz get back?”

Jack frowns and steps back. “Where are you going?”

Bitty clucks his tongue. “I’m driving down to Samwell for the reception with Professor Atley, remember? I’m going up _early_ to pack the rest of my room, so I can get _back_ here in time for dinner tonight. Your parents land around 4:45, everyone else will be getting here ‘round 5:00. I want plenty of time to get ready.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve told you this a hundred times, Jack. _But_ ,” he sighs, “I’m not holdin’ it against you, because know you’ve got a lot on your mind right now, bless your heart.”  

Jack grins, chagrined. “Sorry.”

Bitty turns around to face Jack and meets his eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty, Mr. Zimmermann,” he says, trying for serious and not quite managing. He lifts up on to his toes to kiss Jack and it’s supposed to be a quick peck, but Jack can’t resist chasing his lips and kissing him properly.

They stay that way for a while, until Bitty makes a quiet sound against his mouth, pulls back just enough to say, “Jack.”

But he doesn’t say anything else, so Jack kisses him again, because he can. Because he’s in the Stanley Cup playoffs for the first time, just one game away from winning the Conference Finals.

Because it’s 2017, and he and Bitty have been together two years, yet even after all this time, Bitty still gets this soft, stunned look on his face when Jack kisses him and rubs a thumb along his cheekbone, like it’s the first time all over again.

Because Bitty may be driving down to Samwell today, but after this week, he’s going to graduate, and then he’ll never have to drive away again. Jack’s going to win, and Bitty’s going to move in with Jack, and Jack will get to have this— _them—_ every morning.

Jack doesn’t consider himself superstitious, but he’s not going to jinx it by saying anything like that aloud.

Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks _I love you I love you_ as hard as he can.

When he opens them, Bitty’s still there.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I'm rejoining the world of fandom after a long break, and it seems to have relocated to Tumblr, so I signed up! Come say hi! Or don't, and watch me shout into the void as I figure out how this thing is supposed to work. [@knightlightly](http://knightlightly.tumblr.com/)  
>  

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [And Just Like That](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9582320) by [maxette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxette/pseuds/maxette)




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